


in his eyes, i see my heart

by yordle



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dancing, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Flashbacks, Flirting, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magic, Swing Dancing, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22502014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yordle/pseuds/yordle
Summary: They always come at this time. When he’s just sober enough to make out his surroundings, and just drunk enough to never figure out if the apparitions are real. Pouring out any remaining liquid, he downs yet another shot.
Relationships: Angel Dust/Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 118
Collections: Writers of Hell





	1. life without the hue of your iris

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to [Poet Anderson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poet_Anderson/pseuds/Poet_Anderson) and [WhySoSeven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhySoSeven/pseuds/WhySoSeven) for helping with stuff
> 
> also listen to these songs:  
> [tapatio - 6o](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dbcBe9smETI)  
> [8pm - sadeyes ft. guardin & 9tails](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RceynXJTq48)

Masked under the ticking of an old grandfather clock and the creaking floorboards of a shifting hotel, a thump of glass against hard mahogany wood resonated through the lobby. Husk downed a shot, a desperate attempt to chase away the day. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to be alive in this god-forsaken shithole of a hotel.

They always come at this time. When he’s just sober enough to make out his surroundings, and just drunk enough to never figure out if the apparitions are real. Pouring out any remaining liquid, he downs yet another shot.

It always starts with a voice. Whispers spoken into his ear, or accusations thrown from across the room. The nasal, melodious voice from a squad-mate. "Can ya still shoot straight, Husk? Or have your abilities degenerated like that alcohol addiction?" It's as if the guy is standing behind him and Husk only has to turn his head and look into those dark brown eyes. God. Ray was so young when he died.

Slowly, they sneak into the corners of his vision, twisting and pulling his eyes from the now empty bottle. Shadows doing the devil’s dance, slowly hardening into reality. His commander, with intestines spilling out of his stomach, dragging himself across the hardwood floor. His squadron, bleeding from countless bullet holes that punctured their bodies, lifelessly hanging about the bar. The children, with their burnt faces and scarred hands, begging to be put out of their misery. He fucking hates it. Hates it with every fiber of his being. He hates himself. How he can never ignore the torturous screams that ring through his ears, the bloody messes that materialize on these dark nights, his own sunset eyes and checkered wings and heart-stamped fur; his personal hell.

_There’s the scent of flowers. Chrysanthemums, carnations, lilies, scattered across the ground, growing in a clearing far from camp. Then there’s lights in the darkness, fickle little creatures with glowing abdomens that flutter in the dark. Their iridescent bodies rise from the shadows, pulsing with color and life. His breath catches and a creature passes by so close that he can almost touch it. The smell of grass, sweet and nostalgic, wafts through the air. Unknown animals, hidden from sight, buzz in a nearby bush, in the trees. Husk turns to his side, quietly observing the sleeping form beside him._

_It’s peaceful, and the soldier looks as if he could join the stars in the sky, dangling just above reach. Shivers trickle down his spine. Drinking in the sounds, the smells, the sights, he feels like he could die in this memory, and he falls asleep._

_When Husk wakes, it’s barely dawn. The stars and fireflies have scattered like the wind, the trees and their leaves gently swaying to and fro. But the soldier next to him is gone, the scent of flowers missing. In their place lie dozens upon dozens of spider lilies, dripping in the morning dew._

_He sits in silence and watches as light slips into the sky, a tide dragging fire in its wake. He can’t stop the tears that form in his eyes, the world turning a vibrant mix of reds and browns and greens. It is beauty. It is heartbreak._

The image flickers, bringing Husk back to the present. Back to his cheap booze and shitty bar and hell of an afterlife. 

Husk takes out a knife from underneath the counter, quietly contemplating if tonight will be the night. He stares at the markings, words that he will never be able to understand run over its surface. Though he had come to terms with it soon after landing in this pit of suffering, some part etched deep into his heart still longed for salvation. Pulsing ever so slightly with an ivory glow, it illuminates the dingy bar, highlighting the golden heart carved right into his palm. Of course Hell would never let him forget that. Damn, he fucking hates it. He wants so badly to stab the knife right in the middle, twisting and turning until nothing but a bloody mess remains. After all, that’s what fate had so cruelly done to him. But despite how fervently he wishes to commit to the act, he just can’t. He doesn’t want to think about why.

The edges between his vision begin to blur again, thoughts carrying him back to oppressive summer nights spent lying in a cot surrounded by nine other soldiers. Back to playing cards in the dead of night, yet never able to recall those formless faces. Burying himself in the joy of the moment, unwilling to think of the past or future. Nights filled with merry booze, poker faces, and meaningless bets. Anything to ease the tension of an oncoming attack, and he found solace in those nights. But Hell just had to grant him these bloodshot wings marked with diamonds, clubs, spades, hearts. He wants to rip them out so fucking bad.

Husk grabs another bottle from the shelf, not bothering to check the label. He doesn’t care what it is, as long as it stings on the way down and gets rid of these damn memories. He doesn’t want to fucking think about it tonight.

But the devil won’t let go that easily, and shadows begin to creep into his mind once again. 

_Husk sat alone on the side of the barracks, uniform stripped to escape the unbearable heat. Lost in his thoughts, he gazed towards the sky, waiting for night to fall once again. A movement to the right caught his eye, and hands instinctively reached for the knife in his pocket. Hands that quickly relaxed at the realization it was only a fellow soldier. Ray, a young man in his 20s, dragged to war just like every other poor soul stuck in the camp. Husk didn’t do friends in the military anymore, they were taken too often; though he knew the guy was popular among the troops. Sitting down right next to Husk, Ray leaned back against the wall and let out a slight sigh. Pretending not to notice his penetrating gaze, Husk continued to stare ahead. They sat in appreciative silence for a bit, but then the questions came._

_Ray shifted his head to look at the same nothing Husk seemed to stare at. “So, what’s ya name?” A simple question, but still more than he wanted to deal with._

_“Husk.”_

_“What brought ya here and turned ya into such a grump?”_

_“Same shit that dragged everyone else here.”_

_That managed to lay a smirk on the other’s face._

_“Ya got a cig?”_

_“Don’t smoke.”_

_“Always so boring?”_

_“Are ya writing a damn book or something? Just shut up and watch the sunset if that’s what ya came to do. If not, beat ya feet and go back inside.” God be damned if Husk wasn’t tired of his shit already._

_That shut him up real nice. But just like everything else in this war-torn camp, the silence was only enjoyed for a moment._

_Ray spoke in a gentle tone. “Y’know, ya may seem like a pill to everyone else, but I bet you’re a real softie under there.”_

_Husk didn’t give an answer. He was too tired to give a shit about it and start a fight. Perhaps more importantly, he didn’t want to dwell on it for fear of finding truth behind the statement. Never in a million years did he think someone as insignificant as a soldier would trap him with such words._

_He said nothing more, letting silence once again fall between the two as they waited for the day to end._

_And the sunset soon arrived, the last golden rays of light peeking over the canopies. The sky painted with an amber brush, the first of many sunsets to come. Many of them silent, some filled with Ray’s monologues, and an even rarer few with Husk’s voice ringing into the night. That same golden sunset trapped forever in his eyes._

And the music, the damn music, begins to drift in his ear. The sharp ring of a harmonica hovers around the bar, sweet notes of an unforgettable song coming alive in his mind. G minor, C7, F, F, chords trapped forever in his mind. Constantly taunting and reminding of two voices, one gruff and one melodious, singing deep into the night. Nights filled with harmonica blues, unspoken confessions, and unwavering promises. Keep on playing the music, just keep on playing and maybe it’ll bring him back.

_Husk didn’t like friends. He didn’t like that soldiers were trying to be so damn nice in the middle of a fucking war, didn’t like that they were taken too often and too early, didn’t like that they gave him hope of a brighter future outside of this shitty country. That’s why he hated these feelings he had, a fluttering in his chest at the other’s voice, a spark in his drive to make it out of Vietnam. They’re surrounded by sunsets filled with heartfelt stories and profound realizations, by nights filled with harmonica blues and slow dancing, by conversations filled with hypothetical hope._

_Ray speaks with passion, “Could ya imagine it? Once we make it outta here, we’ll live our best lives. I’ll build that casino I’ve always wanted, make some money swindling those fools, eh? It’ll be grand, I’ll finally be free.” His lips can’t help but curl into a smile, thinking of the countless opportunities that’ll arise back home. The blush on his cheeks is easy to see under the light of a full moon. He’s had a bit too much to drink. Perhaps they’ve both had a bit too much to drink._

_“And what’re your plans after ‘Nam? Gonna go back home to some pretty wife and celebrate?” God, if only Ray knew how much he wished that were true._

_“Nah, I ain’t got no one waitin’ for me back there.” Husk can’t help but think of those beautiful lips, those dark brown eyes, that auburn hair. He tries to shake it out but can’t._

_“Well how’s about ya come with me? Could always use some company, and you’re great company no matter how bitchy you are.” He speaks with a fervor that has been lost to Husk for a long time._

_“What if we die.”_

_Ray’s smile falters, turning away from Husk to stare at the trees instead._

_Shit, had he said that out loud? Fuck, fuck, damn it, he’s so goddamn stupid. Why’d he have to ruin such a perfect moment. “Uh, ignore that. I-I think I just had a lil’-”_

_“Y’know, I’m not afraid of death. It’s not empty like you say it is. Emptiness is being chained by a fear of death, and I’ll be damned if I don’t break those chains.” His face is alive, on fire. “You could do so much, we could both do so much, so we just needa live, right?”_

_“What do you live for?” Husk asks suddenly. He wants these thoughts to leave him alone._

_“I live for the dream that someday I’ll be more than myself, that I find a purpose and stick to it. What else is living? And what about you, I’m sure you can answer ya own question.”_

_Husk can’t, or maybe he doesn’t want to._

_“I think, I think I live for you.”_

_And with that, he matches those lips against his own. He feels Ray flinch against the touch, and for a moment he wonders if their whole relationship is fucked. But then he feels him lean back in._

_The kiss lasts only a moment, but it feels like he is caught forever in time. It is something new, like a spring to Husk’s deep winter._

Dragged out of his thoughts by the creaking of those twin chestnut doors, Husk quickly glances up. With a start, he drops the knife and it clatters against the ground. He rubs his eyes in stark disbelief: there’s a young soldier walking towards the bar with auburn hair and dark brown eyes. Sitting down as if nothing is out of the ordinary, the soldier stares attentively, searching for a lost something in Husk’s golden eyes. Tentatively reaching to grab the other’s hand, he stares back at the ghost, diving deep into those murky pools. But as he draws closer, the soldier pulls out a pistol and gently tucks it into his mouth, tears flowing down those red-tinted cheeks like rivulets of rain. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, this can’t be happening. He can’t live through it again, not now.

A muttered “please,” a closing of those twin halcyon eyes, an echoing gunshot later, and the soldier is gone.

Too good to be true, of course it was too good to be true. Why the fuck would he be allowed any closure, it was hell after all. 

As soon as he opens his eyes, Husk wishes he had blacked out already. But the alcohol has stopped working, and he’s now stuck with the most god damn annoying customer this hotel has to offer: Angel Dust. 

Even worse, the ghosts of his past are in full force now. Apparitions fading in and out against the dingy bar, haunting melodies drifting in and out of earshot. The image in front of him flickers, a young soldier to replace the spider, once again staring at Husk with that penetrating gaze. He feels a whisper brush up against his ear. In that breath, he hears his soul. 

“Live for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, i feel like i did pretty well for a 2nd attempt at fanfiction. this'll have a 2nd chapter as well, but i'm not too sure when i'll write it tbh.  
> and as always, criticism is encouraged, please roast the shit out of me.


	2. all the words i cannot speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoy this chapter. I think ima go ahead and end the story here, but if ppl aren't satisfied, I'll see if I can write some more :)

He sits at the edge of the seat, shoulders slumped and head bowed down on the table.

Notice the defeat in his appearance, the trampling of thoughts that could have been. It isn’t often you’ll find a view quite as dreadful. 

Yes, we _are_ in Hell; and yes, these souls ought to be suffering, but you’ll find most are quite resilient. They’ve simply become desensitized to the horrors one may find down here. Sweltering temperatures just when one is itching for a breeze? They’ll get used to it. Staring down the barrel of a mass murderer? Regeneration is no issue as long as it’s not a holy weapon. The infrequent dream filled with ghastly imagery and distressing reminders of the past? Eh, what’s one night out of the eternity they’ll spend here.

But sometimes Hell relishes punishment. It’ll find a poor demon, many times not even the worst of its inhabitants, and plague them with nightmares and visions dour enough to break the most tenacious of souls.

And look at this fine specimen we have here. He embodies the truest definition of our aforementioned punishment. Do you see those golden eyes hidden in a cynical gaze? There’s quite the story behind that. Take careful note of those clawed hands. They should be much better maintained right? After all, he _is_ a magician. Perhaps they remind him too much of something in his past. Who knows.

Notice the scowl plastered on his face, very obviously tired and annoyed with a certain customer.

And while you may delight in angst at the cost of others, why don’t we leave him be for now.

He has quite the time ahead of him.

* * *

“What the fuck do you want.” 

“I’m just tryna get a drink with a cute bartender. Maybe something a lil’ more interesting later.” Angel winks and a smile escapes from his eyes.

“Oh fuck off, I ain’t interested.” He’s too old and too far gone to deal with this shit.

“Well then, how’s about you just keep me some company? I can’t sleep and you’re lookin’ like you can’t either.”

_“You’re great company.”_

The words swirl around in his head, ricocheting off thoughts lost in another time. He picks his head up, staring into Angel’s eyes. The image keeps flickering, reminders of something unattainable, and he tears his eyes away.

“Uh, you good? Ya ain’t lookin’ so hot there.” There’s a hint of worry in Angel’s voice, something he hasn’t heard in a while. 

Shaking his head to clear out the thoughts, his voice comes out just a little more broken than he wants it to. “I’m fine. You gonna order or keep wasting my time.”

“Gimme a sex on the beach baby.” Another wink.

God damn, he’s not paid enough for this shit.

Though Husk finds that when Angel’s silent and sipping on a drink, he’s a lot more bearable. And a few drinks later, he finds that drunk Angel also isn’t as bad as he thought.

He stares down the spider’s eyes. He doesn’t know why, but the image won’t stay still. The room begins to sway, to and fro, like willows caught in the wind. Soon, he’s once again lost in a memory. Though this time it’s filled with screams and pleas for help.

With a start, Husk wakes up in his room. Out of force of habit, he reaches for a drink on the shelf behind him. But he’s surprised to find that there is no bottle, no shelf even. At this point, mind finally catches up to body and he realizes he’s no longer at the bar, but in his room.

What the fuck happened last night.

He tries to get up and crawl to the bathroom, but his body aches and it’s already everything he can do to not vomit lying down. 

In essence, he’s trapped in his bed. Trapped in his thoughts. Thoughts of a certain spider’s eyes that remind him a little too much of someone in his past. Someone he’d much rather forget if the god damn ghosts let him.

It slowly becomes a pattern. 

Angel will come down to the bar, or back from whatever job he was working that night, to get shitfaced with Husk. Sometimes they would drink in silence, other times they would exchange pleasantries, and on those rare occasions, Angel would strike up conversation about nothing and everything. 

Somehow, Angel asks Husk to dance. And he can’t believe it himself, but he fucking agrees. It’s like he’s got no control over his own words. What a dumbass.

“One dance, that’s all I’m gonna give ya, alright?” He tries to sneak an edge of annoyance into his tone, though he’s not sure if it comes through.

“Yeah, yeah. Just set up some music and get to it.”

He finds an old radio from underneath the bar, tuning in to a station playing a song he hasn’t heard for far too long.

He hasn’t danced since the war, but the emphasis is still there, movements forever stuck in his mind. He leads, a swing and a turn, twirling Angel under the guise of darkness.

And his mind turns with it, swinging to another cursed memory.

_Lights are strung throughout the nightclub, illuminating the building in a soft yellow glow. There’s laughter as young men mill among the crowd, in search of girls and drinks. A swooping melody takes to the air, saxophone singing about a man finding his bride among a field of gold. Merriment flows around the patrons._

_In a corner, Husk sits with his leg propped against a chair, bored of the commotion around him. Ray drags him up in a second and despite his protest, even he can’t scowl forever. He learns the moves to a dance he has never seen before; must be one of those new era things he can never catch up on. Damn, he’s getting old._

_Husk catches his foot on the corner of a chair, steps on the toes of his partner, and strikes his elbow against an unsuspecting guest many times before he picks up the moves. But he’s a fast learner, even more motivated by his teacher. Soon, he pirouettes seamlessly through the movements, a smile escaping his lips as he finds himself caught in the other’s arms. And when he gets it right, there’s a kiss against his lips._

With a thousand nights filled by nothing but dance and song, the motions are recorded in his body and replayed like a vintage cassette. The two minutes have brought back a form that’s been lost for decades, stuck in late nights and dirty bars. 

Even in his new body, the emotions surge through like a masterful recording. It can do things the old one couldn’t. The muscles contract differently, the ligaments take more strain, the nerves fire faster, even under the influence of an ungodly amount of alcohol. There’s a sweet burn in his muscles as the movements flow.

The dance has a nostalgic feel. Listening closely, he hears the echoes of the past. Moving nimbly, he feels the vibrations of distant air strikes. He smells the decay of fresh leaves in a cool autumn breeze. He’s seen the dance before, and performs it better than anyone else down here. It’s a dance his body is made for.

He misses those days, when no one judged for the stink of swill on his breath, for his scruffy appearance and “no fucks given” attitude. 

In the grand eternity of hell, the decades have been but a second.

(Yet it feels like a lifetime).

Talk of magic suddenly comes up one night, an incredulous look on Angel’s face.

“You’ve gotta show me sometime, I fucking love magic,” he says, eyes lit up in excitement.

It’s like he’s back at camp, performing tricks late at night for Ray. Caught in a moment of remembrance, Husk takes off his hat and reaches in, rummaging for a pack of cards and coins in the nothingness. Pulling them out in a flourish, Angel claps in elation.

He’s literally a fucking child.

“Watch closely or you’ll miss it.” Words that have been uttered a million times in some past life, stuck in the loop of foldable chairs and stuffy barracks. 

Music drifts into his mind, though it’s not the same harmonica tune that’s plagued him for the past 40 years; something different, something new. He hears the beginnings of a piano, sweet and melodic. It’s soon masked under the mellow ring of a saxophone. 

The fuck is this? He’s heard it somewhere before.

Ah, that’s right. Jazz nightclub, 1940s. Flip Philips and the ol’ “Sweet and Lovely.” It’s been a while. 

He falls into the lull of the song, tail swishing idly behind as his hands continue with the tricks. Disappearing coins, pulling cards out of thin air, the whole set. He hasn’t performed in a while, though they come back in quick bursts of muscle memory. So many tricks, so many possibilities. And of course, why not sprinkle some actual magic in there every so often. Just when the audience, or in this case Angel Dust, feels as if he’s figured it out.

As he’s shuffling the cards, he smacks his palms together and pops out a flower. Fresh, crisp, smelling of memories long forgotten. 

“And since you’ve actually been quiet for once, this is for you.” Husk leans forward to place the rose in Angel’s shirt pocket. He feels a gasp of amazement run down his spine, and he catches himself thinking of the other’s lips.

“Damn, Husk. That. Was. Amazing. Thought you were some cheap shot, but I didn’t know you had actual magic in ya.” Angel’s still stunned, mind trapped in circles as he fingers the petals in his pocket.

“Well, when you’ve been around that fucker Alastor for as long as I have, you pick up a few things.” He’s still on the high of the performance, a distant fervor flaring in his eyes. 

The music reaches a climax. Saxophone, clarinet, trumpet, blending into an euphony of harmonies that encapsulate the bar. 

Angel hears it too, though something about Husk’s ardent gaze and swishing tail tells him he shouldn’t say anything about it. He simply relaxes in the sound, taking in this view of the magician illuminated by a few burning candles. It glistens off his claws, highlighting his golden eyes, dancing against the red backdrop of his wings. A view only he has the pleasure of witnessing.

Now, if you’ve been paying attention, you might notice a pair of red eyes staring from the stairwell. Or perhaps you might catch a glimpse of golden teeth glistening in the candlelight. Maybe even a shadow creeping back upstairs, to a room that belongs to a certain caretaker. Those two certainly haven’t.

And as the shadow leaves, the music fades. The feelings don’t. A certain something lingers in the air, though the two leave it at that. He’s too afraid to pursue anything. Why the fuck wouldn’t he be, it’s not like love’s done him any good in the past. 

He gets up in silence, sweeping the coins and cards off the bar top. There’s no sound as they disappear off the edge. Shuffling to the stairwell, he waves a goodbye at Angel, not bothering to turn around. Or maybe he’s just scared of seeing that face. The fear that it’s the same image which has been embedded into his eyelids.

He hears a dejected sigh from behind, and continues towards his room.

(In that breath, he hears his soul).

1:42 AM. Angel’s late. 

Not that he cares. It’s simply an observation. Yup, just keep it at that and nothing more.

He’s not worried, why the fuck would he be worried. He’s simply disappointed. Though what else is there to expect from the hotel’s stellar resident. Sarcasm drips in his mind. 

Angel stumbles in through the door, shirt slipping off the edge of his shoulder. There’s bruises on the side of his face, cuts along his body. Appearing unfazed by the wounds, he sits down at the bar, head hung low in lethargy.

“Gimme a vodka tonic.” A simple enough request.

The voice is weak and pitiful. A certain beauty hidden behind the worlds and circumstance that separate them. 

Grabbing a new glass, Husk begins to pour, though he’s quickly interrupted.

“Hold the vodka, hold the tonic...just hold my hand. Please.” Angel’s voice quivers at the last few words.

Husk shivers.

_Ray’s death. Simple wooden coffin. Closed casket funeral. He offers a one-armed hug to the family, it’s the only thing he can do now. Fifty-three and so damn old, so damn tired. A scar lines the corner of his eye. His face pale and ghostly. Gray streaks through his hair like the tears that run down his face. He’s not a man made for affection, not anymore._

He can’t do it.

_Death is easy once you’ve tried to find it._

He stares into those mismatched eyes for a moment too long. The image crumbles and fades to sand, grains scattering in the winds of an oncoming storm. If he stands any longer, gravity might let go and he’ll fall headfirst. 

In the darkness, there’s the noxious brewing of emotions. In his head, thoughts dart like a finch across his tongue. In his eyes, memories replay, a broken video.

Characters of a foreign tongue flow through his mind. Phrases that Angel will never understand; he doesn’t want him to know. But it’ll be enough to taper his guilt, seeking repentance.

“滴不尽相思的血泪.” He whispers and puts those lips on his.

Once, no more.

(In those eyes, he sees his heart).

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i tried out a new style at the beginning and a little throughout with the whole narration thing, inspired by [Hereticality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hereticality/pseuds/Hereticality)
> 
> the line 滴不尽相思的血泪 is a reference to《红豆曲》from the book《红楼梦》, a Chinese classic (yes I'm Chinese). It means "endless love-sick drops of blood and tears." if Mick Lauer can speak Chinese, then so can Husk and u cannot change my mind.
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed my first ever complete story lol


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